


Taking Touches, Stealing Glances

by Villain_Complex (Random_Fandom_writer)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Good Mordred (Merlin), Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Merlin is a bit of an ass, Mordred is so touch starved, Mutual Pining, Sickfic, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24034990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Fandom_writer/pseuds/Villain_Complex
Summary: It's not a home, and he is not safe, but Mordred will stay because he is not alone.Yet he feels so cold.Mordred knows why. He knows he is not welcome- not to Emrys. And even if it is nothing new, he cannot help but feel so very empty as he watches the revered one laugh joyously amongst the other knights, knowing he will never have that luxury. It is a queer sort of feeling. He would almost say it is something akin to longing, but Mordred knows better. He does not long for anyone. Certainly not the man who burns holes in his head with eyes more ancient than his own. Like he is something to be avoided. Feared. Loathed.Yet Mordred lies. To himself. He wants Emrys. Wants so much it nearly hurts.
Relationships: Merlin/Mordred (Merlin)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 229





	Taking Touches, Stealing Glances

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT part of my God AU, which I had promised to solely work on throughout quarantine, but I got this idea in the dead of night and got really excited so I had to write it.
> 
> Oh man, I originally planned this to be nothing but fluff, but the angst kept sneaking in. I'm so sorry.

Mordred grew up from the age of twelve, alone.

_Alonealonealone, searchingsearchingsearching_ for some _thing_ , some _one_ , some _place,_ anything, anyone, anywhere at all, as long as he belonged. 

He is moving. Always moving, never stopping. _Tumblingtumblingtumbling_ into the hands of Druids, bandits, Saxons. _Givinggivinggiving_ his loyalty if only to keep alive. Giving but never receiving. 

Mordred has never been one to be trusted.

And he doesn't know _why._

Maybe it's the way he looks so young, yet so experienced, with the ancient eyes that see. His ancient eyes have seen many a thing, and it's turned a young, innocent boy into a warrior. A warrior who only wishes to survive. 

He never stays. Only as long as is convenient. No, Mordred is meant to move. He does not have a home. Does not have the surety of safety, because Mordred isn't trusted, and people who are not trusted, are meant to be alone.

Mordred is alone. And he always will be.

***

When he came to Camelot he'd had an inkling of hope.

Because this was _new._ These people were not Druids, or bandits, or revenge ridden Saxons. They were men of honor. They were _knights_ , knights of Camelot with capes of red. Violent, sinful, _honorable_ red.

It's not a home, and he is not safe, but Mordred will stay because he is not alone.

Yet he feels so cold. 

Mordred knows why. He knows he is not welcome- not to Emrys. And even if it is nothing new, he cannot help but feel so very _empty_ as he watches the revered one laugh joyously amongst the other knights, knowing he will never have that luxury. It is a queer sort of feeling. He would almost say it is something akin to longing, but Mordred knows better. He does not _long_ for anyone. Certainly not the man who burns holes in his head with eyes more ancient than his own. Like he is something to be avoided. Feared. _Loathed._

Yet Mordred lies. To himself. He wants Emrys. Wants so much it nearly hurts.

He humors himself sometimes, imagining the Warlock smiling, smiling at _him._ Imagines that the laugh Merlin elicits was his doing, that _he_ was the cause of such a pure, musical sound. Imagines the curve of his lips as he smiles and laughs, meeting his until they are _entwiningentwiningentwining_ together. Imagines the gentle touch of rough, overworked hands trailing down his chest. _Slowlyslowlyslowly_ ever so tantalizingly because Emrys just loves to tease. Imagines labored breaths, and ghost whispers, and torturously gentle _touch._ How he yearns for the touch of Emrys (though he'd never admit such a thing out loud). Anywhere, everywhere. As long as they're close. 

Mordred wants what he can't have.

And with that, he is as alone as ever.

* * *

Mordred gets what he wants in the Armory one day. Very briefly, and not at all as he'd imagined, but it is the closest he will ever get. 

So he takes.

"Let me help you with that." 

He takes the touch, absorbs it, memorizes it, replays it _overoverover_ in his mind. Feels how strong arms wrap around from behind, so daringly- verging on dangerous as they press close to his neck. A threat in itself, though Mordred still has to stop himself from relaxing into the not quite embrace. 

Because this isn't what safety is supposed to feel like. Or maybe it is. Mordred wouldn't know. 

Because this is Merlin, Merlin whose eyes when they lock, are filled with so much heat, so much _fire_ it makes his throat run dry. So much fire, Mordred practically scorches in the blaze. Leaving his limbs utterly shaky, and a low heat in the center of his belly.

Because at the moment, Merlin's magic is _glidingglidinggliding_ up his core, through his chest, and resting at the base of his collarbone. Not moving forward or away. Just resting. 

Mordred _tries_ to see it as a threat.

Instead he takes.

"Tell me something," Merlin says, and it is with nearly everything Mordred has not to gasp out _anything_ like a dying man. 

"You saved Arthur's life. Why?" 

Mordred doesn't hesitate. He doesn't need to. "Because Arthur is right," he states, plain and matter-of-factly. "The love that binds us is more important than the power we wield." 

He knows, knows it is exactly the right answer, and the best part is, it's _true._ Arthur is right. A just king that he is proud to serve under.

But Merlin doesn't look impressed. Not even a little bit pleased as he steps away from the now unarmored knight. Mordred counts it as a defeat. 

* * *

Merlin likes Mordred, which is quite terrible indeed.

The fact is, it is hard not to. He's sweet, and innocent, and a little bit withdrawn, but Merlin knows. Knows and sees. He knows his destiny, and when Merlin looks upon the Druid he _sees._ Sees the ice cold determination, the desperation to prove something to someone. The knights maybe, or perhaps Merlin himself. 

Merlin knows what he is destined to do, and he longs nonetheless. He knows Mordred longs too. 

He pretends he doesn't. Pretends he doesn't hear the soft, almost unnoticeable hitch in the Druids breath when he trains his gaze upon him. Pretends he doesn't hear the gentle murmur of a voice not quite his own calling softly in the back of his head. Pretends he doesn't notice the longing, the yearning, the _want_ as Merlin coldly clicks open the others cloak clasp. 

Because Merlin wants what he cannot have. They both do.

The two are tied together by loneliness, wanting both nothing and everything to do with each other. 

If they're alone, they are alone together. 

* * *

Mordred wakes up feeling spectacularly horrible.

The knight had been fatigued and irritable for days, and has now been graced with a painful pulsing emanating from his temples. He groans at the low light creeping through the curtains, the brightness eliciting another sharp pain.

Though Mordred knows his weakness cannot be permitted. Not as a knight of Camelot. 

So he forces himself out of bed, and pretends like the movement doesn't send him swaying.

***

He stands to the side during training, staying out of the way best he can and silently hopes nobody will call him to spar with them. 

For once, Mordred doesn't pay attention to the eyes boring into the back of his head. Can't pay attention to anything but the clashing of metal, and the hot sun causing black spots to dance around his vision.

Someone grasps his shoulder. He flinches first, and stumbles second when he realizes whose hand it is. Mordred can't bring himself to catch himself as he falls straight to the ground like a bag of bones.

"You're ill," Merlin says, crouching down beside the fallen knight. 

His eyes scrunch in a mixture of pain and embarrassment. "I'm not ill."

"What is it with knights and being all rough tough untouchable?" Merlin sighs. "Mordred, I'm a fully trained physician I know symptoms when I see them."

_"I'm not ill."_

"And I believe you," he replies snarkily. A hand reaches out, hovering _(hoveringhoveringhovering so very close)_ in the air before being pulled back. "Can I touch you?" 

Mordred nearly laughs at the question. Of all the ways he'd imagined that question coming from Merlin, this most definitely wasn't one of them. Instead, he hums in approval, not trusting either his voice or ability to nod at the moment. 

A gentle hand guides his chin upwards. Mordred would relish in it if not for the pounding emanating from his temples. 

"Your pupils are dilated," Merlin says softly. Quiet, as if he's afraid to break him. "Sensitivity to sound and light. I'd say a migraine. You'll be alright with a days rest, though I'd best get you back to your chambers. Gaius will have something for the pain."

Arthur marches into view. "Can't Gaius deal with this? I need you here," He says, a bit too loudly, provoking a wince from Mordred. 

_"Gaius_ is in the lower towns dealing with an illness. _I_ however, am a fully trained physician." He grasps the knights arm, guiding him to his feet. "Don't worry, I'll try not to kill your best knight." 

On the inside, Mordred preens at the compliment. Even if it comes off biting.

He counts it as a win.

* * *

"When you're in pain, you come to me alright?" Merlin internally winces at the stern tone, knowing a reprimand is really _not_ what Mordred needs right now. He sighs. "I know since you're the youngest, the knights like to pick on you, but that doesn't mean you have something to prove." Merlin is all too familiar with the feeling. Being a manservant next to the king and his round table has quite a way of making a man feel inferior. "Especially if that includes disregarding your own health."

Mordred has to force a reply through a heavy tongue. "It's just a headache," he croaks hoarsely. 

"It's much worse than _just a headache_. If you think you can go around waving your weapons at people in this state, then I suggest you keep the diagnoses to me." The words are meant to be playful, but hardly come out as such. 

Merlin busies himself rummaging through his medicine bag, avoiding clinking the glasses together as he searches for the remedy he'd snatched from the physicians chambers. 

He wishes to comfort the Druid. Desperately wishes. It hurts to see Mordred's face twisted in pain as he lays supine in his bed, too tired to even remove his armor before having practically collapsed onto the sheets. 

Before he can think it through, he's reaching out a hand, resting it upon Mordred's forehead. Merlin half expects him to reel away, but he only sighs softly, the space between his eyebrows relaxing as he leans into the touch. Merlin's greedy, stealing touch.

He feels guilty having to rouse him, but the heat from his forehead is concerning, and Merlin _really_ needs to get him out of that armor.

"Mordred. Can you sit up for me please?" 

The man groans weakly, but complies nonetheless, allowing Merlin to help adjust him into an upright position. A potion is placed gently into his hands. Merlin makes sure to soften his voice before instructing. "I'm warning you, this is going to taste horrible, but I need you to drink all of it."

It takes a couple tries of raising the bottle to his mouth before instinctively moving it away as the smell hits his nose, but eventually downs the tonic. Mordred immediately gags as the potion slides down his throat, and Merlin jumps to soothe, rubbing his shoulders comfortingly.

"Sorry, sorry, Gaius' potions taste worse than bog water." 

Mordred's lips upturn in a weak smile, which Merlin practically beams at.

"Lets get you out of this armor."

***

The touch is nothing like last time. Last time it felt stoic, and dangerous, verging on silently threatening. 

This time however.

This time, the touch is gentle, and soothing. Soft, like he's afraid Mordred will shatter. And maybe he will. He feels close to tears as another painful pulse hits behind the eyes, but Merlin is there. Steadying him.

Safe.

_Safesafesafe_.

Mordred's hands shake as he struggles to undo one of the many clasps on his armor, but Merlin is there again _(right there, always there. Mordred wants him here forever)_ to still them, replacing them with his own. He removes each layer with practiced movement, falling into mindless routine. 

They halt once they're down to the chainmail. Mordred contemplates just telling Merlin to leave it on, knowing it is sure to jar his head in exactly the worse way possible, but he's already guiding his arms up and carefully lifting it upward. Despite the care, both the movement and sound have perspiration gathering on his brow, leaving the knight panting in a dizzy spell.

Merlin frowns, carefully wiping the sweat away. Before his hand can snake away, Mordred jolts, grabbing it and pressing the source of cool against his much too warm cheek. He sighs, relief spreading through him at the coldness of the servants palm.

In a perfect world, Merlin would grin- maybe even laugh, and murmur something about getting a cold cloth for his head. And Mordred would smile half heartedly through the pain, until he was lead over to the bed where Merlin would join him. Soothing his temples, and running long fingers through dark hair. _Comfortingcomfortingcomforting_ until they both fell into slumber.

It is not a perfect word however.

The air shifts.

_Mistakemistakemistake._

Merlin stares at him with an undecipherable look and slowly, pries his hand from Mordred's grip.

_Mistakemistakemistake._

Panic wells in his chest, and the Druid takes a small, sheepish step back, head downcast. 

"Sorry."

_'Don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me please-'_

"I think I'd better go. Try and get some rest. If the pain is not gone by tomorrow, call for Gaius." 

Mordred _aches._

He wants to sob, plead, fall to his knees and ask for forgiveness, ask for it to _gobackgobackgoback_ to the way it was. Back to the gentle touches, and soothing smiles. Mordred _aches,_ and is in a lot of pain and just. _Wants._ To not be alone for once.

"Thank you Merlin."

And Mordred is alone.

***

A part of Merlin knows it's cruel. Quite a large part actually, and he wishes nothing more than to dash back down the hall and apologize. For _everything._

Which is exactly the problem.

Because Merlin _cares_ deeply, far too deeply than he should. Mordred does too, and it's gotten them both in trouble.

Merlin was content with stealing. Stealing touches, and glances, _pouringpouringpouring_ everything he has into the brush of fingertips over fabric, or a soft, sullen stare when Mordred isn't paying attention. He was fine with stealing when Mordred wasn't taking.

At least then he could pretend.

Merlin can't pretend anymore, and it's tearing him apart, because all he wants to do is grip the Druid by the shoulders and tell him he's sorry. Look Mordred in the eye and apologize for every misdeed, every cruel act against him. Hold him to his chest, _tightlytightlytighly_ not letting go. Never letting go, not until he's sure he has been forgiven.

But he will not. 

Merlin will not _steal._ Not anymore.

* * *

When he wakes, Merlin is gone, and so is the migraine. 

Mordred bites back the disappointment, and in turn, tears. 

_'_ _Emrys does not want you,'_ he tells himself, and it is the truth. Emrys will never want Mordred. Not like Mordred wants him. 

But for a brief moment, Emrys was his, and Mordred could pretend. It will not be easy to let that go.

He doesn't remember much. Only Emrys and his gentle hands. Soothing. Comforting. 

Mordred knows he should not have pushed his luck. Should not have taken the touch Merlin gave so willingly. Should have resisted the urge to press _closerclosercloser,_ because he knew it was dirty. He _feels_ dirty for taking advantage of his own sore situation, but Merlin felt so _inviting,_ and Mordred can't remember the last time he was touched so tenderly. So softly, full of care. 

He wants now more than ever.

Mordred is _achingachingaching_ for the feel. To be _touched._ He does not want _intimacy,_ not like before. Now, Mordred only wants to be held. _'Like a child'_ he thinks bitterly, and immediately banishes the thoughts from his mind. He is not a child, he is not weak, and he does not need Merlin.

But oh god does he _want._

_***_

Mordred takes the day off. Not because he needs it- he feels fine _physically,_ but because the thought of facing Merlin sends a fresh wave of tears to his eyes that Mordred can't be bothered explaining to the other knights.

He lays in an empty bed, and mourns. 

When Mordred wakes again, it's with a pillow hugged to his chest.

* * *

The next weeks are hell.

Merlin doesn't speak to him. Doesn't look at him, not even to glare, regarding the knight with icy ignorance. 

There is no emotion. No anger, or fear, or loathing. Simply nothing, as if Mordred is no more than dust on his boots.

Mordred wants something, anything, any reaction at all, even if it is to strike him across the face, because at least then he'll know what Merlin is feeling. 

The knights notice. Leon and Elyan voice their concern one day in the armory, as Merlin sits sharpening the king's sword. He spares a glance to the servant, who doesn't bother to show the same curtesy. 

***

One day after practice, Mordred decides he's had enough.

As soon as the rest of the knights disappear from the armory, he clamps down on Merlin's wrist, dragging him down the hallways, up the stairs, and into the safety of his chambers.

He growls, shoving Merlin by the shoulders into the wall, pinning him there. His movements say anger, but his face says desperation. "Why are you doing this?" Mordred chokes, pleading for an answer rather than demanding one. "Emrys _please,_ you know I adore you. I would lay the world down at your feet, if only you would let me." His voice shakes, but doesn't soften. "Let me in. _Please."_

And with that, the resolve breaks.

Merlin lunges forward, snaking both arms around Mordred's waist and _pulling._ Pulling the two so close they practically meld together. His head comes to bury itself into the others neck with a wet, desperate sob.

"I'm sorry." He gasps, tremors wracking his form. "I am _so_ sorry Mordred, oh my god _I'm sorry."_ Arms claw at Mordred's back, trying to pull them _closerclosercloser_ so very close, yet not nearly enough. A sob of Mordred's own joins Merlin's as they _take and steal and take and steal_ from one another. 

Mordred thinks. Thinks of the time when he was a boy, and Emrys all but sent him to his death. The words he had said, _'I shall never forgive this Emrys. And I shall never forget.'_ How young and foolish he was, because like a mantra in his mind, all Mordred wishes to do is let it all go. Every single thing. 

So he does.

"I forgive you. _I forgive you_ Emrys, it is alright," he rasps. 

Merlin lifts his head, teary eyes filled with pain, and regret, and _want._ A want that steals the breath straight from Mordred's lungs. A want Mordred had only bothered to imagine in his mind.

Their lips meet in the middle. 

Mordred inhales sharply against Merlin's mouth, because he has wanted this for _so long_ , so very long that it has torn him apart. And now, Merlin is there, piecing him back together. 

Mordred takes, takes the touch greedily. Clings to it, relishes in it, relishes in the way Merlin yanks at his hair, _pullingpullingpulling_ desperately as he trails kisses down his jaw, moving _downdowndown_ and pressing apologies into Mordred's skin. He allows Merlin to steal, steal the moans straight from his mouth, steal his mind, his heart, his _body._ Merlin steals everything, and Mordred gives it all willingly. Mordred would give anything for him willingly. 

Mordred smiles, knowing that he will never be alone again.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried writing this in a different style than I'm used to, hated it, then re wrote almost the entire thing.
> 
> It is worth noting I'm asexual so maN some of this was a bit hard to write, I'm so sorry if it's crap. I did not like to write it, so it's a bit brief.


End file.
